


A Ballad of Boding

by thealmightychespin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Eventual Sex, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealmightychespin/pseuds/thealmightychespin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is a third class passenger on the RMS Titanic; Hannibal Lecter is the head chef for the first class. Hannibal has dark intentions for Will, but after striking up an unusual relationship, Hannibal finds himself playing with his food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Shit, shit, shit!" Will is late, very late. The ship leaves in one hour and he's at least a forty minute's walk away if he doesn't get caught up in the crowds. He slept just a tad too late and now he knows there's no time and he's just going to have to bring whatever is absolutely necessary.

Ticket, of course. Will tucks it into his pocket. Clothes? He decides that three shirts and two pairs of pants should hold him over; it's not like anyone is going to notice if they're unwashed down in the steerage. He stuffs two packages of cigarettes into his pockets along with the ticket and all of his other written requirements. Then he's out the door, bidding his mother and dogs goodbye—he tries to not think about the fact that he won't see them again for at least a year.

Will dashes through the crowd, bumping into people in his rush and getting a few angry shouts, but hey, he's running on a schedule. He's panting once he finally reaches the dock and shoves the ticket into the gatekeeper's hands, who scans it over briefly before allowing Will inside.

Will's nervous, a little frightened, and already several kinds of lonely, but above all else, he's excited. He hasn't been to America or seen his father since he was a young boy, and he's well over twenty now—Will hopes his father is proud of the man he's become. Memories of fishing and ice skating and cooking with his dad back in America all of those years ago makes him feel better about the long impending journey in front of him. He watches the boat leave the dock, smiling and waving at the dozens of strangers down below. He feels euphoric, even though he can't stop the small tear that leaves his eye as he leaves behind his small family in Ireland. Will tells himself that they'll be perfectly fine, and he knows that they will. His mother is a strong woman, and she promised to write letters a few weeks after they hit the docks in America. Mentally, he bids them farewell, mother and dogs and country in all.

Afterwards, he blindly stumbles around the ship. The RMS Titanic is beautiful and extravagant, though he knows better than to think the same holds true where he's going—down to steerage, where it's dark and packed and smells a little…odd. Will realizes that his mother was not exaggerating when she said riding in third class was one of the most unpleasant experiences one could go through. But a ticket's a ticket, and both third class and first class are ending up in the same place, so Will figures it doesn't matter too much. His room is cramped and dusty and he's sharing it with three others, a mother and two children, but it's tolerable.

The mother beams widely at him when he enters the room for the first time. The two children, one a boy of maybe ten and one a girl no older than five, hide behind their mother. He smiles at them.

"You're a very handsome young man," the mother says with a thick Irish accent, and Will blushes and hopes that the darkness of the cabin hides it. "What's your name?"

"Er, Will Graham. And you, ma'am?"

"Oh, please. I'm Dorothy Black, no ma'ams or missuses needed. And these two," she says, gesturing behind her at the two kids who are still staring wide-eyed at Will, "are Robert and Mary. Robert steps out a little bit and smiles timidly but doesn't speak.

"So," Dorothy says, beginning to unpack her and her children's few belongings, "where are you headed to?"

"New Orleans. My dad lives there. I haven't seen him since I was maybe fourteen," Will says wistfully. The little boy, Robert, smiles at him. "How about you three?"

"Oh, we're headed to Massachusetts. No real reason, other than we decided that starting over might be what's best for us. Work in Ireland has been evasive. My husband's down here somewhere, probably already makin' friends." She laughs heartily. "He's the type to make the best of any situation. You'll have to meet him. I think he'd like you, Will. His name's Arthur. I'll introduce you sometime." Will smiles and nods politely. He likes this woman. He hopes her presence will make the voyage a little less lonely.

"Alright, Will, we've got to get to findin' Arthur. It was very nice meetin' you." They shake hands and Dorothy ushers her two children out of the cabin. Will flops down onto his bed, which is a hard mattress and a single thin blanket, but he's so tired that he's asleep within a few minutes.

He's woken up about two hours later by a loud clanging followed by a deep voice bellowing "Dinner!" Will almost ignores it and goes back to sleep, but his stomach rumbles its objection to that idea. Groggy and disoriented, he stumbles outside to see what's on the menu.

He wasn't expecting much, but he was certainly expecting more than a bowl of lukewarm porridge and a bread roll, which Will assumes is probably stale. Still, he swallows his distaste and thanks the short, beady-eyed man spooning it out. Dorothy, who is sitting at one of the tiny, round tables, catches his eye from across the packed room and motions for him to come over.

This time, a colossal man with an impressive black beard is sitting with Dorothy and the kids. "This is Arthur," Dorothy says. Arthur grins and slaps Will on the back—a little too hard, Will thinks, and he smiles to hide his wince. "Dorothy told me about ye, son!" he almost yells, and Will can already tell that this is the kind of man that's a little too loud, a little too friendly, and a little too wild. Then again, Will thinks that's probably the best way to be when you're in third class on a week long voyage. Probably makes it more tolerable. He's about to take the first mouthful of the milky white, almost liquid porridge, when another voice yells over the man who is still spooning out meals. "Marcello!" it yells, and the meal guy, who Will guesses is Marcello, suddenly looks very nervous. He shambles over to the stairs as another man makes his way down. He's tall and graceful and dressed in a white chef's outfit.

They're arguing about something, Will can see, but the room's so loud that he can't hear about what. The taller man steps down into the room, carrying a large metal pot. Will wonders why. He's definitely of the first class—Will can tell by the impeccable uniform and his well-groomed hair. What business would he have down in the dank, crowded third class quarters?

The man bangs on the pot and the room falls quiet. Everyone's attention goes to him, and Will can tell everyone's wondering the same thing as him: What's he doing down here? "Good evening, everyone," the chef says. He has a thick accent as well, much like most of the ship, but it's different than the rest. Will can't quite identify it. German, perhaps? Perhaps not. Either way, it's oddly charming.

"Mr. Lecter," the man named Marcello says uncertainly next to him. "This isn't exactly...allowed..."

"Hush, Marcello. You're being rude." The chef turns his attention away from him and back to the crowd. "My name is Hannibal. I am the head chef on this ship. It has been brought to my attention that what you're eating right now may be...inadequate. So, I have taken it upon myself to make you something that is closer to meeting basic human standards. You may come up and get some if you please." He sets the pot on a nearby table.

The crowd doesn't need to be told twice. Whatever it is, Will knows it must be better than the slop they were previously served. Will can see from a distance that the man—Hannibal, Will thinks he said—is serving soup. And it smells delectable.

Will has to wait a while, since everyone wants to avoid touching their previous meal, but eventually Will makes it up to the front. He looks at the ground to avoid the man's eye as he spoons the soup into a bowl for him. For some reason, his heart is pounding. Perhaps it's because no one above the middle class has ever associated with him or his family before.

Will forces himself to look at at the man and thank him. Hannibal meets his eye and gives him a warm smile. "I hope you find it to your liking."

Will stutters out a thank you and hobbles back to Dorothy and her family, who is already enjoying the meal. As Will suspected, the soup is incredible and has a flavor unlike anything he's ever tasted before—not that his family has ever been able to cook anything close to a chef's standards. He wolfs down the entire bowl in five minutes.

Afterwards, Will and Arthur talk for a bit over a beer while Dorothy puts the children to bed. As they talk, Hannibal, who is preparing to head back to the nicer parts of the ship, catches Will's eye again. This time, he bows lightly and gives him another smile, which Will nervously returns.

Arthur catches him gazing across the room and bumps his shoulder, grinning. "He's a handsome fellow, eh?"

"Yeah," Will finds himself saying without realizing. Arthur laughs heartily and then returns to their previous conversation.

They stay up quite late, until most of the room has cleared out and the majority of people are in their cabins. They say their farewells and head to their respective cabins.

That night, as Will is trying to fall asleep on the hard, uncomfortable mattress, he finds himself thinking of Hannibal the chef. Which is ridiculous, he thinks, because he hasn't spoken more than four words to the man. But his mind refuses to let it go, and Will falls asleep thinking of the handsome chef.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is going to be my first multichapter fanfic. I haven't got all of the details totally worked out yet, and I'm not sure how long it will be, but I imagine it will be at least 5 chapters. Sexual themes/violence will most likely increase as the story goes on. I hope you enjoy ;w;


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal is in the kitchen at 5:30 A.M. sharp the next morning, starting on the day’s breakfast. He’s a half hour ahead of schedule, but he doesn’t trust the rest of the kitchen’s ability to get their part done by seven, so he takes it upon himself to give them a head start.

Hannibal lets his mind wander to the one particular young man down in steerage from the previous day. He looked deliciously healthy, if not a little bit on the lean side—but then again, Hannibal reminds himself, he can probably eat only enough to keep him alive. He's clearly not of high social status. Hannibal knows there probably isn’t much meat on his bones, but he can’t help the pang of hunger that greets him as he thinks of the young man. The glasses, the scruffy look, the tattered clothes...Hannibal has never willingly befriended or made a meal out of someone of a lower class, but something about this young man is causing some very dark, delicious thoughts.

_Perhaps I could find a way to lure him up to first class,_ Hannibal muses as he begins cooking. Today's breakfast is vegetarian, but he's hoping tomorrow's won't be.

A fine idea strikes Hannibal. Just as he had last night, perhaps he could find a way to sneak food down to the third class again…if he saw the man from last night, Hannibal could ask his name and go from there. He's certain no one will notice if one person goes missing from the third class as long as he covers up his tracks well.

Hannibal has just finished enough to make rounds down in the steerage when the rest of his crew begins to file in, yawning and rubbing their eyes, only half ready to start the day. The rest of the ship should be awakening by now, including the passengers.

“Marcello,” Hannibal says to his colleague, catching the short man’s attention. Marcello jumps every time Hannibal addresses him. He tries not to smirk in pride.

“If you don’t mind, Marcello, I’m going to take some of the food down to the third class again. Take over for me while I’m gone. I shouldn’t be long.” Hannibal awaits a protest.

Sure enough, it comes. “Sir, I don’t know if you should be associating with…”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says, and Marcello quiets. “Will you do as I ask?”

There's a moment of hesitation, then, “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Marcello.”

Marcello is a good man, even though Hannibal knows he scares him out of his wits. Why, he doesn’t know; he’s never done anything to make Marcello feel uneasy around him. But he listens, he’s a good worker, and he’s polite. Frankly, that’s all Hannibal asks for in an employee.

He makes his way down to where the sun doesn’t shine again. His nose crinkles, but he continues down the winding staircase into the third class. Hannibal is at a loss as to how anyone survives a voyage in these conditions.

Everyone recognizes him once he makes it down there, and he’s immediately flooded by hungry passengers. Hannibal is more than happy to keep them well fed, as he knows what it’s like to be hungry or live off of below average food, but he’s still only here for one person. His eyes scan over the massive crowd, but he can’t spot the face he’s looking for. Hannibal waits, handing out bowls of oatmeal to everyone, still searching. It takes a while, but eventually, the young man from the previous evening does show up towards the end of the line, looking tired and just as nervous as he did before. 

Hannibal purposely leaves him for last so he can question him in private. As he’s handing the young man his meal, Hannibal asks for his name.

“Will,” he says, barely audible, looking at the floor. “Will, uh, Graham.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Will.” Hannibal holds his hand out, which Will reluctantly shakes. “My name is Hannibal Lecter, if you recall from last night.”

“Y-yes,” Will says. Hannibal quirks an eyebrow. Either he’s very intimidating, or this is simply a very timid young man. Either way, he fears it could serve as an obstacle.

"Care to sit?" Hannibal asks as charmingly as he can, and gives Will his most handsome smile. Will, in turn, looks reluctant, but Hannibal can see a small glint of excitement in his eyes. He's happy about the request.

"Sure," he says quietly, and allows a small smile. Hannibal guides him over to one of the too-small-for-comfort tables and decides to make small talk first. He's aware that most of the third class is probably looking at them strangely, but he can't find it in him to care.

Hannibal asks Will about his life as he enjoys his breakfast—where he's from, where he's headed, and the like. He finds out that Will is twenty-four, born in Ireland, as Hannibal guessed by his accent, and headed to the states to see his father. He can see Will's eyes light up when he talks about his father. He must love his father very much; Hannibal feels a pang of jealousy at this. _Oh well,_ he thinks. _If I can get him up to first class with me, he won't be reaching America anyway._

In turn, Hannibal shares a bit of information about himself when Will asks. "I was born in Lithuania," he tells Will. "I lost my family at a young age. I spent my adolescence in an orphanage. When I became old enough, I moved to Scotland and found my talent in the culinary arts. I found a job working as a chef on several ships, which lead me to here." Hannibal purposely leaves out a few details. Even though he isn't planning on knowing Will for long, there's some things people are better off not knowing.

He can see unspoken pity in Will's eyes after he finishes, as he often does.

They continue speaking for a while longer; Hannibal momentarily forgets he's on a schedule and that Marcello will probably come looking for him soon. There's something oddly charming about Will. Hannibal thinks it's the innocence. He can tell Will is the naive type. Oh, how fun he would be to toy with... Hannibal stops the thought. He can't have himself thinking about the boy as anything other than a meal. Growing attachments is never good.

Finally, Hannibal finds an appropriate time to ask Will to accompany him to a more personal meal. "Will, you're very charming," he starts out. Flattery tends to work well in the innocent, Hannibal has found in the past. He's correct—Will blushes so brightly Hannibal can see it even in the dimly lit room.

"T-thank you," Will chokes out. 

"Would you be interested in accompanying me to a proper meal?" Hannibal doesn't doubt that he will agree. "Upstairs?" he adds.

"In first class?" Wil asks uncertainly. "I'm not supposed to be up there."

"I can pull a few strings," Hannibal says. "I'm sure it won't be a problem."

"I don't have anything to wear," Will mumbles, gesturing to Hannibal's professional-looking chef outfit, which greatly contrasts Will's tattered shirt and trousers. He wants to say yes, Hannibal can tell, but the barrier of self-consciousness is holding him back.

"I can find you something," Hannibal offers. "Really, Will, I wouldn't have asked if I weren't prepared."

Will tries a final weak protest. "Are you sure, Mr. Lecter? No one from the upper class has ever even wanted to associate with me before, let alone be seen eating dinner with me." Hannibal decides to seal the deal. He brushes a strand of Will's curly hair out of his eyes and makes eye contact with him while he has the chance. Will tenses, but doesn't object. He smells absolutely delectable. "Call me Hannibal. I'll meet you here at seven o'clock this evening, after I've finished preparing tonight's dinner." He makes his leave then, internally swelling with pride at Will's dubious, yet excited, expression.

Hannibal returns to the kitchen just in time to finish the final touches on the day's breakfast. He's hungry, but he decides to skip a morning meal today, hoping that he will be able to eat heartily later.


	3. Chapter 3

Will is very, very nervous.

He can't fathom why on earth someone of Hannibal's status would want to associate with him, much less ask him on a—to dinner, he reminds himself. Not a date. Just dinner.

Still, it's much more than anyone else has ever asked of him.

The last time Will had a girlfriend was when he was nineteen. They went on four dates and he could probably count on his fingers how many times they'd kissed. She'd been a catch, but Will had never really felt a special connection with her. She hadn't been all that interesting. In fact, Will can't even remember her name, she left so little a mark. His mother had loved her, sure, pressed him to propose, even. Everyone seemed to love her but him. A bit of a shame, Will thinks. He hasn't had anyone since then. 

He snaps himself back into the present. He doesn't have a mirror on hand, but he's sure he looks a wreck—he hasn't done anything to groom himself since he stepped on board. He knows his hair is probably wild and unkempt and he's unshaven and, God, he just knows he's going to mess this up very, very badly.

Whatever "this" is.

He's stressing about it in his tiny cabin when Dorothy strolls in so suddenly that Will flinches. She seems to notice that he's on edge. "What's got you upset, son?"

"Er. Nothing," Will lies, because he's not quite sure what to tell her; he doesn't want to sound as if he's bragging about being invited upstairs.

"Oh, come on, now, don't be silly. Everythin' alright?"

She's going to keep pressing, he realizes. Might as well be out with it. "Yes, just—well, I got invited to dinner. Upstairs."

Dorothy's eyes widen and her mouth stretches into a wide grin. "That's wonderful! Why do you look so upset?"

"I'm not, just nervous," Will says. He wonders if he should ask her for advice, because he's not very good at dates—or any kind of social interaction, for that matter. But then again, Hannibal probably noticed while they talked earlier.

"Ah," she says, nodding. "Who invited you?"

"Um...the man that brought dinner last night. And breakfast today. His name is Hannibal. The chef." _The very talented chef,_ Will thinks. _The very handsome chef..._ Dorothy grins and winks as if they've just shared some big secret. Perhaps they have. "Well, I wish you luck, son. Have fun, I've got to be gettin' back to Arthur and the kids." Just as suddenly as she arrived, she's gone again. Busy woman.

A dozen questions run through Will's mind, but the most frequent one is "why?" Why did Hannibal ask him, of all people in the third class, to dinner? Why would Hannibal ask anyone of the third class to dinner? He can't understand why, especially after their previous conversation. Not that Will didn't enjoy it, but he stuttered a lot and didn't make eye contact or any of that stuff that people look for in interesting people. Hannibal had done most of the talking. It's strange, and Will isn't sure if it's a good strange or a bad strange.

He's flattered, of course. No one has willingly asked him to dinner in five years, outside of his family. And as much as he hates to admit it, he's lonely. All he has in Ireland is his mom and dogs, and in the states, even less—just his father. Will has never been good at friends or relationships. It's not like he doesn't try, but he's weird and awkward and just generally not an easy person to interact with. He knows it and everyone knows it. If Hannibal doesn't already, he will soon enough.

All of this is worrying enough, and on top of it, Will's mind decides to remind him that he is _clumsy._ Conversation starters will be the least of his worries when he spills a drink or bumps into one of Hannibal's upper class friends.

This is going to be a train wreck.

Ultimately, though, Will decides to push all of the self-deprecating thoughts and focus on the positives. First, a handsome man asked him to dinner, a man at least halfway aware of how difficult Will is to interact with. Second, he's probably one of the only third class passengers that will see the first class area of the Titanic. And third, whether this is a date or just a friendly meal, he just might walk out of it with a new friend.

How bad could it possibly go?

~

Hannibal can't help but smirk as he goes about the rest of his day. He's got the fish on the hook, now he's just got to reel him in and cook him—quite literally. He chuckles to himself.

Hannibal has a general outline of a plan worked out: he will retrieve Will as planned, and to dinner they will go. If all goes well at dinner, and Hannibal is going to make sure that it does, Will should trust him enough to follow him elsewhere. Hannibal is planning on taking Will back to his own cabin, but he supposes that he could make do anywhere they would have privacy. Finally, whenever Will isn't expecting it, Hannibal will pull the knife out and finish the job. He wants to make sure it's quick and painless for Will. No sense in butchering such a pretty face.

Hannibal is still a bit curious about the boy, though. He hopes to learn more about him at some point tonight, before he meets his demise. It makes the whole experience more fun to play around a bit, and it's better to learn about your prey before you slaugter it, Hannibal thinks. It makes the meal more meaningful. For this reason among dozens of others, he's never grown fond of hunting animals.

Seven o'clock rolls around quicker than Hannibal realizes. Before he knows it, he's fixing his cufflinks and telling Marcello to manage the kitchen cleanup before he heads back down to steerage for the third time in one voyage, which is more than he's ever done on all of his other voyages combined.

As promised, Will is waiting at the table they'd sat at earlier. He looks nervous and he's fiddling with the buttons on his slightly worn checkered shirt, but he's there. He notices Hannibal and quickly strides over.

"Hello," he mumbles quietly, before adding, "This is the best outfit I have. It's not much, but..."

Hannibal hushes him before he can continue. "If you prefer, I do have a suit you could borrow for the evening." In all honesty, Hannibal is hoping he will agree, because the shirt is atrocious. It's not heavily ripped or tattered or anything of the sort, but the pattern is downright obnoxious. Hannibal has to hide a grimace.

Thankfully, Will complies—rather shyly, but he agrees all the same. Hannibal leads him upstairs and through the first class corridors. Will is looking around like a child in a candy store. Hannibal finds it endearing. He honestly does feel a bit guilty about making this young man into a meal, especially one that he won't get to share.

Will looks even more impressed by Hannibal's cabin, which has charming wooden walls and a few lamps on the wall that give off a pleasant amount of light. The room also comes with a king-sized bed, which seems to shock Will the most. Hannibal has seen the third class cabins before, and he understands Will's amazement completely. He allows him to look around as he fetches the suit.

Hannibal returns with the suit, only to find Will still deeply interested in the decor. He coughs casually to get his attention. Will's head snaps in his direction.

"Oh! Sorry, um, thank you very much," Will says, taking the suit from Hannibal's hands. "I'll just go put this on—where's the bathroom?"

"Just down the hallway to the left," Hannibal tells him, and Will scurries outside. He'd much rather Will just change in the room to get a glimpse of what he'll be working with later, but he doesn't want to risk making the boy uncomfortable. One false step now, he knows, could make a difference later in the evening.

Will returns clad in one of Hannibal's suits (which is admittedly a little big on his lean frame), with a shy smile on his face and Hannibal has to physically restrain himself from pouncing on the boy right then and there. His hunger returns full force and God, all he wants to do is _taste_ his flesh and his blood _right now_ because he looks very, very appetizing.

Hannibal snaps out of the hunger induced trance before Will can notice that he's looking at him like a starved lion and nods at him, and his smile grows slightly larger. "You look exquisite," Hannibal says, and he means it, though maybe not quite by Will's definition of the word. Will smiles nonetheless and stutters out a thank you. _This is turning out quite well—for me, at least,_ Hannibal thinks.

They make their way down to the dining hall at a reasonable pace. Will is silent, and Hannibal doesn't try to start a conversation—not yet. He lets Will have peace for the time being.

Much to Hannibal's distaste, they run into a couple of his acquaintances when they reach their destination. All of them are fine people, but Hannibal had wanted to get through the evening smoothly and without any distractions. So much for that.

"Evening, Hannibal!" one of them, Frederick, says, and he's followed by a chorus of other greetings from the other two, Alana and Jack.

"Good evening," Hannibal says politely, nodding at them. Will looks distressed, and Hannibal curses the boy's seemingly incurable insecurty. "This is Will," he says to to the group. "Will, these are some of my...friends, Frederick, Alana, and Jack."

"Hello," Will says softly.

"Nice to meet you," each of them say individually. Frederick looks at Hannibal strangely, and Hannibal can read the question in his eyes: "What's your business with one of the lower class?"

"Will is accompanying me to dinner," Hannibal adds, answering everyone's unspoken question. They all nod, and he knows they're all wondering "but why?", but he feels no need to address it. It would more than likely make Will more uncomfortable than he clearly already is.

"Well," Hannibal says, trying to move things along, "I shall see the three of you at a later time, yes?" They all get the hint and nod, taking themselves elsewhere. Hannibal prepares himself for the bombardment of questions that he knows is coming later.

Will is visibly relieved once they finally are able to sit down at one of the tables. The dining hall is mostly empty, save for three other tables on the opposite end. They will have complete peace and privacy. Hannibal hopes it will make Will feel more at ease and, ideally, open up more.

Marcello serves them the meal soon after they sit, which consists of veal (which would not have been Hannibal's first choice) and an assortment of vegetables. It isn't much for a few reasons: one, Hannibal didn't trust Marcello to make a real gourmet meal, two, he knows it won't take much to impress Will, and three, he wants to save room for his second dinner later.

Sure enough, Will is digging into the meal as if it's going to be his last ever—technically, it will be, but he doesn't know that. Hannibal allows him to enjoy the food in silence for a few minutes before he attempts to initiate a conversation.

"So, Will, tell me about your childhood." He looks for any opposition to the topic of choice in Will's eyes and finds none.

"Well," Will says with a mouthful of food, which Hannibal forces himself to not point out, "I spent the first...oh, I don't know, six years of my life in Ireland, which I don't really remember. Then my family moved to the United States, and we were there for another seven or so years. When I got older, my dad used to let me help him with his work there. He was a fisherman." Will swallows. "I didn't have many friends, but I looked after a lot of stray dogs, and I liked helping my dad, so I was happy there. But when I was fourteen, my grandfather died, so my mother and I moved back to Ireland to be with my grandmother. My dad, he stayed behind." There's just a hint of sadness in Will's voice as he says the last part.

Hannibal nods. "It sounds fairly enjoyable, though," he says, to which Will agrees, smiling wistfully. Hannibal finds himself noticing just how attractive Will is for the first time, before he quickly banishes the thought from his mind.

Throughout the course of the evening, Hannibal gets Will to open up quite a bit more than he had ever hoped, but there is one topic he notices Will adamantly refuses to approach: romance. He doesn't know why, but Will always seems to get a certain look of discomfort in his eye whenever the conversation strays anywhere near romance. Hannibal makes an attempt to avoid the topic.

"Well then," Hannibal says once they've both finished the meal, "how about we continue this discussion elsewhere?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote & am posting this at an ungodly hour so I hope it proves to be good! Also: I'll be on vacation starting this Saturday, so expect either very minor or no updates for a week after that. I'm gonna try to get another chapter up before then though! I hope you enjoy this one ;u;


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